


It's the Truth

by Affectionary



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Femsub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:08:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26225443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Affectionary/pseuds/Affectionary
Summary: Natasha is doing this to save her friends. She didn't do it to save her friends before.
Relationships: Natasha Romanov/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10
Collections: Femsub Semi-Flash 2020





	It's the Truth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flipflop_diva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flipflop_diva/gifts).



Steve nods at her. It's divide and conquer. It's payback. It's two eyes for an eye. It's time, because innocent (the most valuable kind) lives are at risk.

The first explosion predated this rash. Steve was present, acting as a tourist à la Romanoff. She wonders what flashed in his mind when the heat hit him. She doesn't know. It could be death in black leather. Maybe it's pain, and the lack of it.

She is not omniscient, but it is better that people think so. Even her friends.

As long as someone trusts her intuition, people will always be prepared for the worst. For blood, and mistakes, 

It wasn't in America the first time. It was in Lithuania, Vilnius, the Old Town. There was nothing there, except for Steve Rogers, and the historic sites that Steve finds himself in without seeming intention. But the next time it happened was when they were both in America, with the same type of explosive, at a construction site Natasha was staking out. Another happened in a public garden Sam came out of. And so on, a pattern vaguely forming. 

They're being followed.

She has a suspicion sinking to the top of her pooling thoughts of paranoia. Who it is, who is keeping their personal interests close to heart.

SHIELD didn't protect. She didn't understand SHIELD at the time. She really could slit her younger self's throat for being _naïve_. But then, _she was right_.

Sam said her cynicism could blind her as much as naïvety. It's a good thing she can fight blind. When she said that to him, his apparent reaction was amusement. His wrinkled nose, his high cheeks brought up higher, his teeth, it all told her: his laughter was genuine. 

She was proud of herself then. It was a moment she categorized as a treasure. A place she could retreat to under torture and attempted brainwashing. 

They only ever managed to brainwash her once, that was her childhood. From then on, it was all her own work, in screwing her head up.

If everything is twisted for her, it's only to forge a bridge from the briars.

She's still trying to be a good person; she's still trying to save lives. 

She needs to retrieve sensitive information from this research facility that employs hundreds, and their enemy knows that. Their enemy has kept a constant eye on them.

Steve's heading towards the foundation luncheon, fundraising for this facility.

The Falcon is hunting. They are bait for the prey-turn-predator. 

The white coat, tight blouse, sharp glasses, the clipboard, it directed passerby's eyes where she wanted them to be. Why notice the two-way radio in her earring?

Expulsions, shattering screams, roaring, and melting. It's from over the radio.

So, it's Steve's explosion. A wariness springs in her: is Steve the only target, or merely someone drawing their attention away where they want it. In the part of her that she never listens to, she wishes she was at her friend's side.

It's only one of a series Steve is dealing with. He's evacuating the building. 

Nobody in hers is aware of the situation across from them. It makes everyone here seem callous, but it's only ignorance. 

It would be easier if they knew. They wouldn't ask her if she was allowed in there, "Only since recently," and they wouldn't hold her up, "If you're going to waste my time, do it efficiently," and interrogating her because they're stressed, "What are you doing here?"

She flaunts the clipboard, the owner's signature sticking out like neon instead of red ink. She receives a nervous apology from the man. Then she briefly laughs to ease the researcher's anxiety. Momentary camradery grows like this.

It's not so deep. It must feel _sincere_ to other people. 

Steve has nearly everyone out, he communicates. 

An innocuous binder she retrieves from the locked cabinet belonging to the head researcher. Then she obtains a folder from the assistant's desk. She compares, contrasts, skims and browses them. She can go now, but she's still here.

She's relapsing into old-new habits. Exchanging time for certainty. Not from her Red Room days, back then, she had as much as she needed of both. And it's not something she developed on the run. It actually emerged when she was first granted a supposed safety among allies. 

"Aren't you suspicious."

That voice is the unwelcome return of what she thought was brutal truth. She had welcomed it before. 

She can see his scarred face in her peripheral vision. 

Rumlow isn't armored in death, he's dressed down. 

She knees him, and she evades the reacting grab, pulling up on the table, taking the momentum gained and turning it into force. 

He fights differently than he did in his days of commanding STRIKE. 

The elbow to her gut hardly fazes her, but the "Let's not do this," and the hand to her throat does it.

"Give it up for the heroes." The gloved hand that jabbed her, slips off her in a rough approximation of a caress. "Not us. I mean, your friends. They're doing a good job rescuing the people."

"But who is gonna save them from the people?"

This is coercion, distraction, or sadistic pleasure. She can handle each. She's handled them before. 

"It's really been too long."

Nothing is long until there is death. But then, there's been a lot of death between here and there. She wishes she had known better, how to prevent it. But she was blind.

"The people don't know they're carrying explosives, but the detonator doesn't need permission."

"I want them dead. But I also missed you."

Her heart stops, and that's fine. Turn it over, and blood will flow again.

"I won't blow them up, if you blow me. Like old times. I miss taking care of you."

She wasn't... being taken care of. She was taking care of him. Like a mess, like a witness, like a loose-end.

"That's it?" Where is the detonator?

She shifts off the reluctance remaining in her fingers, and tugs him closer to her by the collar of his shirt. He doesn't move easily, so she curls in on him.

His smile is crueler than it was before, because of the scars. It's not like he was hiding any of the brutality he possessed. Not from her.

"Mm, the old times were much better. You weren't trying to kill me, I wasn't trying to kill you."

Were the old times better? 

Seduction as interrogation. If you're sharing breath, space, and skin, with someone who has teeth, you have to be aware of the consequences. Natasha is.

The throat is incredibly fragile. Easy to snap. Especially under hands like his. He leads her with an open grasp behind her neck, to a glass walled side office. It's still not private, not even out of the way, but nobody is allowed inside unless the supervisor is there. 

He shoves her to the floor.

"Change your mind?"

She bats her eyes at him, and shakes her head no. She only tells him the earring needs to go.

They don't get to hear this.

"I missed your enthusiasm too."

It hurts and that's real.


End file.
